


Math Girls

by ChocoChipBiscuit



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: F/F, Math and Science Metaphors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-20
Updated: 2015-08-20
Packaged: 2018-04-16 06:58:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4615725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocoChipBiscuit/pseuds/ChocoChipBiscuit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Madison does not rush; she moves decisively when it is time, but she does not rush.</p><p>Which is why she does not fall to her knees to blossom poetry, and why love comes dropping slow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Math Girls

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a reference to the book by Hiroshi Yuki.

Madison does not rush; she moves _decisively_ when it is time, but she does not rush.

Which is why she does not fall to her knees to blossom poetry, and why love comes dropping slow.

* * *

 

Catherine is a woman of warmth and passion, her smiles as expected as the sunrise but no less marvelous. She plants her small joys and pleasures, tends them as diligent as any gardener. Plays records on the juicebox, dances with her shadow if she has no partner, and hums her own melodies if she has no radio. She tucks sweets in her pockets, sunshine in her smiles, and shares both freely. She claims the world follows certain mathematical laws.

“Joy shared is joy squared.”

“And sorrow?” Madison asks, twisting a button on her coat. A terrible habit, one she thought she outgrew as a younger lab assistant, but Catherine makes her relive all the awkward uncertainties of youth.

“Pain shared is pain halved.” Catherine smiles, eyes clouded and wistful. “But there’s enough pain in the Wasteland. Let’s create some joy.”

Catherine steps light on her feet, laughter floating high and hair bouncing as she teaches Madison, well… the Madison. Then hand in hand, Catherine’s fingers curled warm over Madison’s, knees bumping on occasion and Catherine’s giggles floating all about, Catherine teaches other moves, other steps, and dizzied, Madison wonders if Catherine’s mapped the other equations of the heart.

* * *

 

 “I never knew you were a believer,” Madison says, arms crossed and hands splayed, awkward in her own skin. Interrupting prayer must rank as some sort of rude, a social misstep that leaves Madison flailing.

But as with the dance, Catherine smiles, takes her clumsy attempt and spins it back. A settling of phantom skirts as she smooths the bedcovers and closes her Bible. The cracked black leather closes with a sigh, gold-edged paper glinting in the light as Catherine tucks it beneath her pillow. “I am not. A believer, that is.” A pause, eyes in distant dreams before she turns a wicked smile on Madison. “At least not in religion.”

Madison’s chuckle grates in her throat and she covers it with a cough, unbending herself enough to sit beside Catherine. Keenly aware of the way the mattress creaks beneath her weight, the slight tilt of the bed that brings Catherine millimeters closer.

“Then tell me, why does a non-believer read the Bible?”

“Because it is a book like any other.” Catherine quirks her lips, sticks her tongue between her teeth and winks like a vintage postcard. “I love poetry too. Whether Neruda or the Song of Solomon, there’s…. there’s beauty in the words. Elegance. And you do not have to believe in the religion of it-- the rising from the dead, the miracles, the whole bit of three in one or one in three-- to care about the hope. The people who wrote and believed this were trying to make sense of the world.” Her voice trails off, head tilted so her hair falls across her eyes. “I’d rather seek my explanations in mathematics and poetry.”

“Not science?” Madison asks, eyebrows lifting but enough warmth to let Catherine know she’s teasing. (She hopes.)

“Project Purity is the hope, not the explanation.” Catherine chuckles and bumps sideways, shoulder nudging Madison’s. “But enough of work. Since you’re here, why don’t we have a proper prewar sleepover? I’m sure I can find some junk food, we can make cocoa, and I’ll read some scary stories under a blanket with a flashlight!”

Two hours later, they’ve traded cocoa for wine and pass the bottle back and forth. Madison’s flushed, warm, giddy and ticklish all at once. Catherine laughs at how pink she gets (“even the bottoms of your feet, Madison!”) and gave up on reading Poe, instead reading The Captain’s Verses in her wine-drenched voice, eyes bright and hair sticking up in the back but she’s beautiful, she’s beautiful, she’s…

“Joy squared!” Madison crows, tilting back and falling onto the pillow. Catherine tumbles beside her, arms across her shoulders and tannin-soft breath warm on her throat, and laughing, laughing like this moment will never end.

* * *

 

Another late night, running simulations and double-checking one another’s notes, Catherine absently patting behind her ear for a missing pencil until Madison plucks it from the desk in front of her. Thrill of discovery, of finding relevant articles and thinking they made the necessary breakthroughs, that effervescent _eureka_ tingling on the tip of their tongues but tantalizingly distant…

They drink mug after mug of coffee, stirring in little bits of sugar and (for Catherine) spoonfuls of condensed milk. Catherine pops the spoon in her mouth after, absently licking sweetness from the curve while Madison restrains a shudder. The coffee’s vile, stale and bitter, but Madison tries not to taste it too much-- a quick gulp with enough sugar to make it survivable, that’s all. How Catherine manages to sip hers slow remains a mystery.

Coffee can only do so much for lack of sleep though, Madison’s heart an erratic tintinnabulation and her mind racing, racing, skittering along the edges and whispering fragments of half-forgotten melody, the steps of errant dances, a thousand and one jangling memories all warring for attention and insisting they are relevant _now_ and so much more important than staring at the research papers…

“Madison, I think I figured it out,” Catherine says, eyes bright and pupils dilated, dark, dark, like to swallow the light.

“The Project?” Madison asks, tongue sleepy-fuzzy-scuddy under the tarry sweetness of her sugared drink.

“No. Joy shared, pain shared, but _love_. Love grows exponentially, function of time. No upper limit.” Catherine's chuckle floats about them, like a bubble sustained by caffeine and good feeling. "A renewable resource, non-finite."

“Not enough coffee, not enough sleep to work that one out.” Still sleep-slurry, but this feels good. Quiet moment between them in the lamp’s glow, no one else to rustle papers or ask questions or do anything but let them feel comfortably alone in this little half-circle of light. “Unless you want to, that is.”

“There are many things I want.” Catherine leans forward, shoulder bumping Madison’s and lower lip between her teeth. Like trying to solve a particularly difficult equation, or recalling a favorite poem. “I want this project to succeed. I want a child-- a daughter-- who grows up eating fresh apples and carrots and drinking pure water. I want to build up the little Wasteland cities and communities, make something new out of the bones of the old world.” A deep breath, warm on the exhale as she sets her mug down. Almost, not quite _on_ her papers, so Madison reaches out of habit to slide the mug farther away, intending to keep it from staining any of Catherine’s work, but Catherine reaches up to place her hands on Madison’s shoulders, coffee-drunk and dream-bright. “I want to visit the downtown museums, stroll through the Museum of Natural History. I want to see a dinosaur with my own eyes, even if it’s just bones. I want to see the planetarium and map the sky. I want to visit a Nuka-Cola factory and drink one of those glowing Quantums. I want to.... I want to…”

“I want to kiss you, if-- if you want to.” Faltering not from doubt, but want-- a serrated longing nestled deep in her bones, roots twining through her veins. Because she knows her own heart, but sincerity of affection does not guarantee its return.

“Oh Madison,” Catherine sighs, eyelashes whispering along Madison’s temples as she moves closer. “I always wanted you.”

Not even the rank coffee can spoil this moment.


End file.
